


Host with the Most

by gloss



Category: Ghostbusters (Movies 1984-1989)
Genre: ALL: Oviposition is a part of everyday life, Alternate Universe - Oviposition, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 23:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15873534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Adventures in ovisurrogacy, or, Ray makes a weird call and eventually everyone supports him.





	Host with the Most

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryontop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryontop/gifts).



> Thanks to K. & L. for beta work and general encouragement.
> 
> Cherryontop, I took this pinch hit before your letter went up, so the media source is film canon only; I'm just not familiar with the cartoons and comics, I'm sorry.

Because their train was stuck in the tunnel after South Ferry, Ray and Winston were nearly an hour late to Venkman's new place. 

"We're going to hear about this." Ray tried to quicken his pace, but he was carrying a fairly heavy bag and the cobblestone streets of Brooklyn Heights were both unfamiliar and treacherous.

"What's the worst he can do? Shut the door in our faces? So we've got bagels and lox to feast on all week." Winston grinned. "Either way, we get to eat bagels and lox."

Ray stopped short in front of the next brownstone. "I should have known! That _weasel_!"

"What's up?"

His hands were full, so Ray pointed with his chin. "He moved into the McClary building!"

"Yeah, okay," Winston said. "You're going to need to fill me in."

As they climbed the broad front stairs, then slipped inside the entryway as a delivery guy departed, Ray was, of course, eager to do so. In the late 1800s, Hugo McClary was said to have maintained three separate families in this house, one on each floor, entirely unbeknownst to each other. 

"...until, of course, that fateful morning when the second Mrs. McClary happened to sniff her husband's custom pipe tobacco blend.... Ah! Here we are." 

"What happened?" 

"Multiple homicides, competing hauntings, it was very messy," Ray concluded quickly, then shifted the Zabar's bag to his other arm so he could knock.

"You're late," Venkman said, opening the door far enough to grab the bag before slamming it shut. Somewhere in the apartment, the baby began to wail.

Winston looked at Ray, who still stood openmouthed in front of the closed door. Ray was a brilliant man, but he'd never be able to understand regular human cruelty and petty obnoxiousness.

That's probably how he'd managed to remain friends with Venkman for so long.

*

They retired to a diner just across from Clark Street station. Rather than Dana's wonderful espresso and bagels and lox, they made do with mud-thick drip and strangely sour-tasting pancakes.

"Do you think he meant it?" Ray asked as they rode the elevator down to the platform. 

"To be a dick?" Winston pretended to think about it. "Yeah, I do." To soften that, however, he added, "Probably just dad-stress, though. That's got to take a lot out of you, suddenly being Mr. Mom and all."

Ray brightened up. "That's a good point! Peter's never been the warmest guy."

"Nope," Winston agreed. 

"Must be nice, though," Ray was saying as they hit platform level. 

"What's that?"

"Having someone to come home to, a nice warm little bundle of love..."

"Hey, man, cheer up!" Winston clapped Ray on the shoulder. "You got me, don't you?"

*

Since Venkman had moved out, first on his own, then to Brooklyn Heights with Dana and Oscar, and Egon was doing all sorts of hush-hush government consulting work, Ray and Winston had the station to themselves. Though it'd been something of a wrench for Ray, who did not take well to change, they removed Venkman's bed and replaced Egon's with a convertible sofa.

Ray couldn't argue with the results. The bunkroom was now an actual apartment, with neatly made beds, an entertainment center, and comfortable couch. Winston liked to call it their swingin' bachelor pad, which made Venkman wrinkle up his nose, open his mouth, then close it, as if he couldn't bring himself to say whatever it was on the tip of his tongue.

Winston's extensive record collection lined the wall around the entertainment center; Ray had contributed his own, far more meager, collection. It only stood to reason that they should combine the LPs.

They worked well together, always had, out in the field, but it turned out that they lived together even better. Ray had had plenty of roommates over the course of his life, all the way back to the five hellions he shared a moldy tent with at dear, sweet old Camp Waconda. His freshman year at MIT, when he was just fourteen, saw him sharing space with a doughy nonentity obsessed with mainframes, who turned out to be some sort of MK-ULTRA test subject. That guy, at least, was a patriot (of a sort); Ray wasn't so lucky during his first postgrad year at CalTech, where his roommate was very obviously a Polish spy. (Ray ate several pierogi from their fridge, including the one with the microcamera negatives, so he missed the big arrest while he was in the hospital.)

Winston wasn't like any of them. He wasn't even like Egon, with whom Ray had lived for several years, on and off. You'd think you couldn't do better than Egon, who was quiet as the (cleared) grave and fastidiously neat. But then you wouldn't have had a chance to do a singalong to Philly Soul, volume three, with Winston Zeddemore.

Tuesdays, they had meatloaf, from Ray's mother's recipe. Thursdays were Enchilada Extraordinaire, thanks to Winston. Fridays were beers and a blues or R&B gig. 

All such scheduled events were, of course, subject to the whims and fancies of the paranormal population in the greater tristate area.

Tonight, for example, after taking a call in the far depths of Yonkers (profile apparition making a fuss at a mail-sorting depot, but _what_ a profile: that beaky nose and long, forked tongue would follow them into their dreams for years), Winston pulled Ecto 1 into the White Castle on East Fordham Road.

"My treat," he told Ray.

"You might come to regret that," Ray reminded him. "One time in high school, I won the local slider-swallowing contest quite handily."

Winston smiled at him as he turned off the ignition. "I know."

Ray’s habit of telling the same stories and sharing the same enthusiasms repeatedly tended to get on people’s nerves. Not so with Winston.

They ate half the sliders on the drive back down into Manhattan, then the rest after showering (ectowash first, then regular shower with Irish Spring) while kicking back and watching Letterman.

Their next call came just four hours later, through the direct line to the Central Park Rangers. The angel at the Bethesda Fountain had gone on walkabout again.

*

Everything was surprisingly, blissfully, quiet until the next evening. Ray was just taking the meatloaves out of the oven when his pager sounded.

He didn't recognize the code flashing on his pager. 191?

"Maybe it's 9-1-1?" Winston suggested, squinting at his own.

The phone on the wall in the kitchen started to ring, which was probably the most unsettling even all week. Rampaging statues and angry bird-headed ghosts were par for the course, but getting calls at home—particularly with Winston's mom off on a cruise with her new man—was unheard of.

Winston took the call while Ray called their answering service from the office downstairs.

"A Mr. Louis Tully for you," the very peppy lady told him. "He was all kinds of worked up! A whole lot of jibber-jabber and downright nonsense, even for you boys."

"Do you recall any of the, ah." Ray cleared his throat. "Nonsense? Or even the jibber-jabber?"

"Lemme see—" There was a pause, the receiver clattering around for a bit, and then she was back. "Janine! Oh, Janine," she read in a voice squeakier than her own, "I don't know what to do! You gotta help me, Dr. Ray and the mean one and the other one, please! Her pointy pokey egg thing, oh, no, I just can’t."

Ray scrawled down the transcription, thanked her, and hung up. He looked up through the opening to the slide pole. "Winston?"

Winston's face appeared like a smiley cartoon sun. "That was Venkman. Apparently Louis Tully called him at home and that should be, and I quote, _against some kind of municipal, possibly state-level, law, if not a UN Human Rights offense_."

"He was the one messing up our pagers," Ray told him. "Louis, that is. Not Peter."

"Well, Venkman did say to call him right back, as he holds you responsible for all matters Louis-related."

Ray sighed. "I think we have a bigger problem than that."

While he peered intently down at Ray, Winston's smile faded. After a moment, he grasped the pole. "I'm coming down."

"No, it's—" Ray stopped, as Winston was already halfway down. He wore his usual at-home gear, gray sweatpants and a Walt Frazier Knicks jersey. Maybe it was the angle, or the strange hour, or Louis-Tully-related irritable anxiety, or what Ray was increasingly sure was wrong with Janine, but Ray noticed for the first time how _long_ Winston's limbs were. His body was arranged so fluidly, with such artistry, that it was remarkable. His toes were pointed as he descended, like a ballerina. "Hello."

"Hey," Winston said briefly, brushing off his hands. "What's the big problem?"

"I think Janine's ovipositor is in distress," Ray said. "Clogged, perhaps? Maybe a sclerotic hardening, I couldn't say without an examination." He paused to let Winston take it in, but Winston just looked back at him with an affably blank expression. "Oh, right, let me back up. I believe Janine is a wasp queen. She's going to need to lay her eggs, and soon, or she'll be in danger of dying."

*

"Possibly an occlusion of the infundibulum," Egon's message said. Winston was hunched in front of his office computer, reading off the screen into the phone.

On the other end, Ray said, "I thought the same thing!"

"Good for you," Winston said. "But then he goes on to say—"

"—that the oviduct of most xenohymenoptera are far more sophisticated than mere funnels, yes, yes."

Winston sat back in his rolling chair heavily; it skidded back and to the side. "You two are so creepy when you get like this."

"Get like what?" Ray was calling from the pay phone outside a bodega on First Avenue, just around the corner from St. Marks. "Wait a second, hold on."

A young person done up in glitter and a ruffled petticoat held out their cigarette. "I _said_ , got a light?"

"Yes, of course, one moment—" He dug in his pockets but couldn't find his pipe lighter. He grinned apologetically, but his companion rolled their eyes. "It's on me somewhere!"

"Back pocket," Winston told him. "It kept falling out of the front ones."

"Winston, my man, you are a gentleman and a true friend." Ray lit the sparkling person's skinny cigarette, then turned around. "So—"

"Same to you," Winston said. He cleared his throat. "That you're a gentleman and friend."

Ray grinned so broadly that an old man clutched his raincoat more tightly around him and quickened his step. "Thanks, Zee. Does Egon have anything else to say?"

Winston scanned the green-on-black display, paging through one screen, then another. "He recommends a personal examination."

Ray nodded. "All right. I'm going up to the apartment now. I'll call you from there."

Just before Ray hung up, Winston said, "Ray?" 

Ray snatched the receiver back. "Yes?"

"You need a hand? I'm no Egon, not even a Venkman, but—"

"We're a good team," Ray said. "But I can handle this."

"All right."

"But Zee?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," Ray said. "I mean that."

"I know you do. You always do."

*

After Janine got evicted from her illegal work-live loft somewhere around the Mudd Club, Ray offered to rent her the apartment over his bookstore. It was a no-brainer, really; he knew her, knew she could cover the rent, and it would bring him some peace of mind to have a known entity there.

When Louis moved in, shortly after their defeat of Vigo, he and Janine threw a party that, of the Ghostbusters, only Ray and Winston attended. Several of Janine's downtown club friends were there, though whether they were crashing and happened to wake up in the middle of wine and cheese or were consciously in attendance remained unclear. Some of Ray's customers from the bookstore came, as well as Louis's new clients from his motivational speaking enterprise.

Ray knocked once on the door to 1A; the needlepoint nameplate bounced. It read _Bless this Mess ♥ ♥ ♥ Louis and Janine_ above what looked like a red barn or old-fashioned schoolhouse.

"Hey, Dr. S! C'mon in! What brings you out at this hour?" Louis left the door open and padded down the short hall. He wore a baby-blue union suit and, to be perfectly honest, Ray was not surprised in the least.

"You blew up our pagers and personal phone lines, Louis, remember?"

In the kitchen, Louis was pouring two large glasses of milk. "Oh! Oh, that! That was nothing, forget about it!"

Ray looked around the dark apartment. "Louis?"

Louis pushed his glasses up his nose. "Yes, Dr. Stantz?"

"Is everything all right?"

Louis gulped down half his milk. "I got problems, I'm like anyone else, you know? I won't lie. But I'm okay! I'm peachy!"

"Louis." Ray could hear Venkman in his head: _don't get involved, Ray! Never get involved!_ He squared his shoulders and softened his tone. "You can talk to me."

"Boudoir problems," Louis said, hanging his head. He pronounced the word like _**bewd** -war_. "I got boudoir problems _bad_."

"Oh. Oh, I see." Ray didn't, actually, see. He didn't think he wanted to. "Does this have to do with Janine's ovipositor?"

"Her pokey egg stick?"

Ray swallowed. "Yes. That."

Eyes wide, Louis nodded. "How did you _know?!_ You really are a genius!"

It would be rude to remind Louis that he had in fact shared that information with them, so Ray changed tack. "Did you know she was a wasp queen, Louis? When you first, uh." Ray gestured vaguely. He _tried_ to make it vague, but the index finger of his right hand kept stabbing downward in unmistakably phallic ways. Clutching his hand into a fist, he stuffed it into his pocket. "Got serious."

"Oh, yeah, totally! That was like the best news I got all day that day!"

"Oh," Ray said. "All right, then. But now, is she...you indicated that she was in some distress?"

Louis gulped down the rest of his milk and started on the other glass. Apparently that one wasn't for Ray. 

"Louis?"

"She's so mad at me, Dr. Stantz." He set down the second, now-empty glass. "Maybe you could talk to her? For me." He tried to plaster on a smile, but it just made him look like Vinz Clortho was still lurking around his edges, snarling and drooling. "You know, like friends do?"

 _He's not your friend! He's a strange little weirdo we can't shake!_ , the Venkman in Ray's head shouted. Even his construct of Egon agreed: _Inadvisable, Ray. Getting entangled in romantic disputes rarely ends well for anyone, and even more rarely for the meddler._

"Of course I will," Ray said. Of the people in his mind’s eye, only his idea of Winston smiled at him for tha. "Where is she?"

"In the boudoir! I'm sleeping on the couch, of course, for obvious reasons. But you can go right down."

The several moments that Ray needed to summon his courage to walk down the hall to Janine Melnitz's boudoir were among the most tense of his adult life. He had neither a proton pack nor a PKE meter. He didn't even have a switchblade.

"Janine?" He spoke softly, almost coaxingly, as he knocked. "Janine? It's Ray."

Her boudoir was as severe as one of Janine's deadly stares: all glossy white with strange black scrawls on the walls and flocked black velvet curtains on the window out to the fire escape. Her wide bed was spread with a slashed-design crimson throw.

There was no trace of Louis in the room, but then, Ray hadn't really expected any.

"Dr. Stantz? What are you doing here?" Janine sat in sharp-cornered Danish Modern chair that looked like a chiropractor's torture device. She set down the thick paperback she'd been reading and cocked her head. "Is everything all right?"

"I—. That is, uh." Ray glanced over his shoulder. In his experience, it was around now that doors tended to swing shut behind him and block easy escape. This door, however, remained ajar. The faintest blue glow played over the hallway wall from Louis's television. "Louis indicated that there was some kind of.... Well. Issue? Problem? No, not problem, so much as a _dispute_?"

"Dr. S," Janine said, and tugged up the strap on her black negligee. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"With, with—" For God's sake, Raymond! Get a hold of yourself, this isn't 1959 and you're not seeing your babysitter's bra strap for the first time! "With your ovipositor, I believe?"

Janine blinked several times. "That's a very private issue, Doc."

"I know! And I'm sure it wouldn't ever have come up—erected—that is to say—" Ray sagged against the doorjamb. "Is everything all right, Janine? Physically, emotionally?"

She took pity on him, her expression lightening. 

"Louis can't hold my clutch," Janine said. "He's too little. I think he's too nervous, too, but mostly, it's the size thing."

"Oh," Ray said. His mouth was very dry, his head swam, but he also felt wonderfully relieved. At the same time, he felt terrifically sad for Janine. "Oh, that's a shame."

"We keep trying and..." She raised one hand, then let it drop heavily into her lap. "I'm not getting any younger, Doc, you know? A queen has _needs_. Urges, like. To spread her superior alien genetics and all that."

"Of course," Ray said and nodded heartily. "Of course, understandable."

"Sometimes I'm about this close-" She held up her thumb and forefinger all but touching. "—to saying the hell with this, ripping off his head, and doing it the old-fashioned way."

"Don't!" Ray shouted. All his relief and jovial agreement flooded out of him. "Please don't do that."

"I won't," she said. "I love that little snot, I really do. But—"

"A queen has needs," Ray said for her.

"Exactly."

*

"—so it's settled," Ray concluded. He'd met Winston at their favorite diner just off the Hunter College campus and devoured a stack of pancakes while waiting. He was exhilarated, _buzzing_ , couldn't seem to sit still. "I'm going to carry her next brood to term."

Winston set his silverware down very carefully. "Ray."

"Yes, Zee?"

"You're going to let a wasp queen fill you with her eggs."

"That's the sum of it, yes," Ray said. "See, I told you I could explain things clearly!"

"And this strikes you as a good idea?"

Ray nodded, chewing the last bites of his second helping of pancakes. "Oh, yes! I'm over the moon, in fact."

"This been a dream of yours?"

"Well, not in so many—" Ray ticked his head back and forth, considering the question. He always did listen to Winston, give him the benefit of the doubt, treat him well. "I guess you could say yes?"

"Yet it never came up," Winston said. "You'd think it would. Stay up late, kill a six pack, we get tired of debating Aretha versus Diana, conversation might turn to...affairs of the heart."

"We're talking about it now," Ray said. He squinted a little, trying to make out the import of Winston's expression. "Are you angry?"

"No," Winston said quickly. "I'm not angry. I'm...surprised, I guess."

"Don't worry," Ray said and speared one last forkful of pancake. "I'm sure I'll survive the extrusion."

*

Worrying about the extrusion hadn't yet occurred to Winston. He was stuck for a long while on the mere fact of Janine laying her eggs in Ray.

Egon arrived late the next afternoon, from Krakow or Tallinn or Belgrade, it was unclear. He appeared in the fire station with that unnerving suddenness with which he always moved. One moment, nothing; the next, nothing had solidified like smoke and become Egon.

"I came as soon as I heard," he told Ray and Winston. His valise safely stowed in his locker, he was changing out of Serious Government Contractor drag into Serious Egon in Private. His tie was a lighter shade and he actually rolled his sleeves to the elbows.

"Heard what?" Ray asked.

"Ray," Egon said, levelling a Janine-quality stare his way. "You're being facetious, I suspect."

"Oh, the ovisurrogacy, yeah, got it." Smiling, abashed, Ray rubbed the back of his neck. 

"I dropped everything," Egon told them. "Do you know how many Warsaw Pact scientists there are to debrief?"

"A lot, I'd think," Winston replied from the station galley. If he didn't tackle lunch, he'd learned a long time ago, everybody would go hungry. "Everyone okay with spaghetti?" 

"No garlic," Egon called. 

"Spengler," Winston said, "You can't eat spaghetti without garlic."

Egon remained impassive. "I don't see why not. Pasta in no way requires adornment to be digestible."

"Ray?" Winston said. "You good with chunky Prego?"

"Load it up!" Ray patted his stomach. "After all, I'm about to be eating for zillions."

Winston ducked back into the galley, hopefully in time to hide the queasiness that no doubt was plain on his face. He heard Egon correct Ray, before expanding into a commentary on contemporary innumeracy.

They ate in Ray's office. Ray and Winston passed the green can of parmesan cheese back and forth while Egon serenely spun plain spaghetti, dressed in cooking water, onto his fork.

"I don't know why you had to drop everything," Ray said when he'd finished his second helping. "This sort of thing is hardly unprecedented."

"What sort of thing is that?" Winston asked.

"Oviposition in humans," Egon replied and Ray nodded. "Ray, you must know that within my social cohort..." He paused, ate the last two noodles on his plate, and inclined his head. "You're right, it's not unprecedented."

Winston piled their plates and set them aside. "It's *Ray*, man, not some generic store-brand social cohort."

Egon nodded. "An astute observation."

Ray rolled back and forth in his desk chair. "You're all making a much larger deal out of this than necessary."

Winston and Egon exchanged glances. Finally, Egon said, almost delicately, "You're not exactly at your youngest, Ray."

"I'm not decrepit, either."

"No, you're almost within the parameters of health for a man of your age and height."

"I don't think the issue is...whatever that is," Winston said. "I think we're worried—" Egon cleared his throat at that, so Winston amended, "At least _I'm_ worried, about the emotional side. The toll it might take on you, the consequences, the fallout from this favor..."

Ray appeared to listen, but when Winston had finished, he blew a loud, wet raspberry. "This might be my last chance for kids! Think about that!"

"They are not children," Egon said. "At best, they are grievously unstable homunculi."

Seeing the hurt flash across Ray’s face, Winston waved his hand. "I'm not saying that!"

"Well, good," Ray said, rising to his feet, his face flushing. "Egon, I'd thank you not to speak of my future brood like that."

Egon's razor-thin lips twitched slightly. 

*

The next day, Winston watched from the front desk as Ray skulked toward the garage. He had his coat's collar flipped up around his jaw, like a kid playing at being a spy. His shoulders were rounded, his hands deep in his pockets.

"Ray," Winston said, and Ray actually jumped. "Sorry."

"Don't _do_ that!"

Winston was sitting right out in the open. He wasn't sure what he could have done differently, but now was not the time for that argument. "I'm sorry, Ray. I just wanted to say something."

Ray was turned away, chin tucked down, like he expected the world to keep raining blows down up on him. "What's that?" 

"Do you want some company? During the procedure?"

For a couple moments, Ray didn't react. Then his back straightened a little and he stole a glance over at Winston. "You serious?"

"Yeah," Winston said, getting to his feet and pulling on his jacket. "Of course I'm serious."

"But—" 

"Listen, man," Winston said as he joined Ray at the door. "You're my friend, whatever you decide to do. You shouldn't be alone if you don't want to be."

"Zee," Ray said, finally looking at him in the eye and smiling as widely as Central Park's Great Lawn. "You're a mensch."

Winston clapped Ray on the shoulder. "Takes one to know one."

When they hit the sidewalk, Winston looked around. "Where're we headed? Mount Sinai? New York-Presbyterian?"

"Janine's place," Ray said. "Easier that way. Cozier."

There was so much wrong with that proposition that Winston was flummoxed about where to start. The mere image of Ray, alone, in his undershirt and boxers, while Janine did her business was enough to set him flushed and seething.

"Easy, hell," Winston said and grabbed Ray’s elbow. "We're going back inside. If this isn't being done in a hospital, least we can do is have you comfortable at home."

Ray trailed after him. "Really?"

"Yeah, Ray, _really_." He dialled Egon's direct line and told Ray, "Go upstairs. I'll get Janine and I'm calling Egon to supervise."

"Spengler won't—"

"Don't worry about Spengler," Winston told him. "I'll take care of him."

*

Ray treated every problem as one that could be solved with the right research. (And, failing that, with a good blast of nuclear energy.) So of course he had done all the reading, watched both documentaries and personal footage of the ovipositing procedure, prepared as best he knew how. He'd fasted for twelve hours, checked his blood sugar and blood pressure every two hours, even hooked himself up to an EKG.

He was ready. He could not account, therefore, for the fluttery feeling in his gut, nor the one at the base of his neck. He was excited, yes, that much was clear. Also, it was normal to be nervous before any significant medical procedure. Still, there was much about his current state that he could neither explain nor understand.

"Hey," Winston said, backing into their apartment. "I got you some soda, some root beer, an RC, even celery soda." He shrugged as he set down the rattling bag. "Didn't know what you might be in the mood for."

"Thanks."

Nodding, looking around restlessly, Winston loomed a little over Ray. "How're you doing?"

"Nervous, actually," Ray told him. He twisted off the cap to the celery soda and took a long swallow. "Isn't that silly?"

"Sounds normal to me." Winston sat gingerly on the edge of Ray's bed. "Listen, Ray, before everyone gets here, I wanted to—"

He didn't get to finish that sentence. Something—several things—clattered downstairs, joined by Janine's voice and the lower drone of Egon. Winston leaned over the pole aperture and called, "We're up here."

Ray swallowed, realizing his jaw had unclenched slightly. Maybe it was the celery tonic, maybe it was the way Winston said "we" so naturally.

*

"You'll want to step outside," Egon told Winston as the procedure got underway.

"The hell I will."

Egon cocked an eyebrow at that, but merely nodded. He rejoined Ray and Janine, checking Ray's pulse with a stethoscope and Janine's xenoenergy signature with something that _looked_ like a stethoscope.

Ray lay on his stomach, shirt off, face turned to the wall. Janine danced around the bed, emitting high-pitched _clacking_ sounds that wove and swayed almost physically after her.

She wore a usual Janine get-up: mustard leather miniskirt, fluffy angora pink cardigan with poodles on the lapels, and sparkly mauve cat's eye glasses. Her skirt, however, was hiked up to her waist, showing off skinny legs in white fishnets and the longest, sharpest ovipositor that Winston had ever seen.

Granted, he hadn't seen many until the last few days. But even Egon, a man who specialized in the unusual and impossible, had gaped a little as Janine's dance progressed and the positor unfurled. Rooted right about where a human would have coccyx, it usually remained folded between the wasp queen's legs.

Not any longer.

Now fully extended, it was longer than Janine's legs, extending down and outward at a shallow angle. Its tip was barbed like a harpoon while the shaft pulsed with eggs filling it.

"Is she done? Can we go home now?" Louis called from downstairs. He peered up through the pole opening, then ducked out of sight.

No one answered him. Janine sprang onto Ray's back by crouching in ways human bones and muscles couldn't move. She clung to his shoulders with her fingernails and threw her head back, the clacking wails speeding up and becoming a single long unearthly shriek. 

The positor bobbed once, twice, then lifted high and bent to stab at Ray's lower back. 

"This is where the majority of kidney damage occurs, of course," Egon murmured. Winston started to shush him, only to stop when he saw the pucker of worry between Egon's eyebrows. He was actually feeling something, Winston realized; when he looked down, he saw that Egon's hand was curled into a fist.

Ray had taken a Valium and smoked most of Venkman's forgotten stash of Honolulu Hash, so all _he_ did was giggle.

The barb slid under his skin and Janine's ass twitched, the shriek throbbing in time, as the eggs pushed their way inside.

"Quite extraordinary non-vascular propulsion," Egon said, still murmuring. It wasn't for Winston's benefit, Winston knew that now, but he nodded along. "Achieves penetrative force that humanity can only dream of."

"I've never dreamt of that," Winston whispered back.

"Liar," Egon said and smirked.

Whatever else was coming out of this whole affair, it seemed that Winston had made a new friend.

"Well, thanks, docs, I'll see ya Monday," Janine said in her normal whine. She tugged down her skirt, smoothed back her hair, and blew them a kiss. "You’re lifesavers! Toodles."

Her stilettos tick-ticked down the stairwell.

Winston checked on Ray. His skin was clammy, but his breathing regular. Every so often, he giggled again. Egon checked his pulse and nodded. The only trace of what had just happened was a small prick in the skin on his lower back. It didn't even bleed.

When Winston pressed his palm over the hole, he could have sworn he felt movement beneath. Nothing harsh or sharp, it was, if anything, acknowledging his presence. 

Everything he'd learned recently about this said that was impossible. The eggs were too undeveloped yet to have mobility, let alone the rudiments of consciousness that had been observed in broods far closer to irruption.

The fluttering against his hand was just whimsy. If it resembled anything, it was like a frilly plant moving in a breeze. It only appeared to be communicating with him.

"Man," Winston said, collapsing into the sofa. "I'm going to help myself to Venkman's hash. You in?"

Egon perched on the arm of the sofa. "I thought you'd never ask."

*

Winston kept expecting something terrible to happen. He was jumpier than Louis on a bad day.

Ray, on the other hand, was serene, content, even radiant. As day two wound down and his midsection swelled like an inner tube, he lay propped up with pillows on the couch, Morton Downey, Jr. on the channel 9 and knitting in his lap.

"You knit," said Winston as he came in. "Since when do you knit?"

"You know, I don't know," Ray said, gazing down at his hands as they looped and shifted bright cherry-pink yarn. "I just got the urge?"

"You're nesting, man." Winston hung up his coat and checked the answering machine. "While you're at it, feel like taking up macramé? We could use some plant hangers."

"We don't have plants."

"Not yet, but the way you're going, I figure we'll have a plot in the neighborhood garden by the end of the weekend."

"I'll add it to the list." Ray came to the end of a row and set the knitting down. "How was your day?"

"Not nearly so cozy." Winston sat heavily down at their small dining table and propped his head in his hand. "Don't stop on my account."

Ray started to push himself up, his gut leading the way. He wore an old, much-burned and frayed 'buster jumpsuit, open to the waist. Even open, there wasn't much room for Ray's body. The swollen area visibly shifted now, constantly, with thousands of minute swirls and loops. Winston could have become hypnotized, had he looked very long. 

But he couldn't look, that was the problem. Maybe he wasn't the supportive friend he was pretending to be, if he couldn't even look at his best friend's swelling egg sac?

"You stay down, Ray, don't be ridiculous." On his feet, Winston grabbed a beer from the fridge and surveyed the scant options for dinner. Maybe it was another night for Carlos y Wong's egg foo menudo. "You hungry, by the way?"

"Yes and no," Ray called back. "Yes, I could eat a horse, but no, there's basically half a pony inside me already. No room for more."

Winston shuddered, then straightened back up. "You need something, though. Milkshake?"

"I could go for one of those Millers."

"Beer? Is that a good idea?"

Ray grimaced. "They're not sharing my bloodstream, Winston. No chance of getting the wiggly larval Melnitz-Stantzes drunk, don't worry."

There was so much Winston still didn't understand. Most of that information, admittedly, had been available to him, but his queasiness had prevented him from paying attention. 

"Here you go." He passed the newly opened bottle to Ray as he sat on the other side of the couch. "What's the million-dollar movie tonight?"

"Towering Inferno 3: Now It's Crispy," Ray said.

They clicked their bottles together and settled in for the duration.

Later, when Winston was tossing out the takeout cartons and wiping down the countertops, he asked, as casually as he could, "So the wigglers? When are they going to—"

"Irrupt?"

He couldn't hide his wince this time. Luckily, Ray was even more amiable than usual. He laughed and added, "Any day now. Tomorrow? Definitely by Friday."

"And I should be laying in, what? Towels and boiling water? An aquarium and grow lights?" He dried his hands on the towel and took a deep breath. "This is really happening, huh?"

Ray patted his belly. "No stopping it now!" He frowned suddenly. "At least, not if we want me to make it through."

"About that—" This was the topic he didn't want to approach. Ray alternated between joking about it and being reassuring about it, but Winston didn't even know quite what to fear. Egon and Ray kept using words like "irruption" and "extrusion" and none of that sounded very promising at all.

"It'll be fine, it'll be just fine," Ray said. So it was time to reassure blithely. Next, a joke would come. "I'm sure that afterward you'll hardly even notice the viscera wreathing our place."

"Damn it, Ray!"

Ray went still and quiet, eyes wide.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—" Winston sat back down and laced his fingers together. He spoke to his palms now; he couldn't look at Ray. "I'm fucking scared, man. This isn't ghosties and spectres, or bubblegum rivers of emotion. This is _you_ and the..."

"Hundreds of thousands of wriggly near-larval homunculi currently occupying my abdominal cavity," Ray said very quietly.

"Yeah, that."

"You're scared? But you're _Zee_. You don't get scared."

Laughing helplessly, almost breathlessly at that, Winston had to look up to check if Ray was joking. "Are you serious? I'm usually five minutes from shitting my pants on any given day."

"Huh. Really?"

Winston's laughter slowed, then stopped. "Have we met? Winston Zeddemore, and you are?"

The way Ray was looking at him, soft-eyed but intent, his lips slightly pursed, might have made Winston edgy. If Egon looked at him like that, appraisingly, he would have booked it for the hills. If Venkman had, he would have punched his shoulder and told him to stop being creepy.

He had no clue what the expression meant coming from Ray. 

His face, his whole being, his _Rayness_ , were naked and vulnerable. They almost always were, but never more so than just now. Ray was hopeful and scared, optimistic and terribly worried, and Winston knew (not suddenly, but with great assurance, as if he'd known for a long time) that he needed to kiss him.

Ray blinked and smiled a little as Winston moved closer. "Pals?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course," Winston said. "More, maybe?"

Their kiss was awkward and messy. Ray’s gut was in the way, and Winston’s hands got a little mixed up, and they both tilted one way, then the other, but it settled, finally, into a warm, languorous thing, full of soft murmurs and shy-eager sensations. Winston cupped Ray’s cheek, fingers in his hair, and felt the kiss shift into something that was, somehow, already familiar.

*

"This is just great, look at you, apple-cheeked and radiant," Venkman said.

Winston and Ray had pulled apart when they heard him on the stairs, but Ray still grasped Winston's hand. There was no way he could wipe the dopey smile off his face, even if he'd wanted to. 

"What're you doing here?" Winston asked.

Venkman feigned a bit of outrage, fluttering hand against his throat and fish-gaping mouth, before he shrugged and dropped it. "You're on call. Can't let you out in the field alone."

Ray and Winston exchanged looks.

"Don't look so surprised!" 

"It's a little surprising," Ray said. "You suddenly showing responsibility and thinking about others, I mean."

"I'll have you know, as a stay-at-home parent, I am the _epitome_ of—" Venkman circled his hand. "All of that. Anyway. How're you feeling, Raymommy?"

"Hosts can be any gender," Ray started, but Winston squeezed his hand in mild warning, so he switched gears. "I feel wonderful, actually. Replete, even."

"Uh-huh. Sure that's not the neurotoxins talking? Lulling you into a false sense of calm and contentment?"

"That hasn't been proven!" Ray said, loudly, because he could feel Winston about to start worrying again. "All speculative."

"Well, you look good," Venkman said. "Barely showing, even. Carry it well."

Ray glanced down at his distended abdomen, unsure if Peter was joking, but then Winston laughed and said, "Good one, man."

"Thanks," Venkman said. "I try." He rose and paced the apartment; he never could sit still for very long at all. Humming something, out of tune and arrhythmic, he peered at their vinyl collection, picked up and examined Ray's knitting, checked the fridge. When he wandered back into the main area to browse the bookshelves, he said casually, "And this? How long has this been going on?"

"This?" Ray asked.

"Raymond, Raymond, Raymond. You think I don't notice blatant canoodling right under my nose? Hand-holding like it's junior high and that counts as second base? _Romance_ , Ray. How long have you two been making moon eyes at each other?"

"That's Amore!" Ray shouted when he realized what Peter had been whistling. 

Both Peter and Winston looked at him oddly. 

"Longer than we knew," Winston told Peter. "Not long enough."

Peter nodded. "I should probably come to work more often, huh?"

*

"Bursting, even exploding, from the host is the usual procedure," Egon said. "I think I have a better idea."

The four of them were crowded around the dining table, polishing off the Enchiladas Extraordinaire.

"You have a better idea than millions of years of xenobiology?" Ray asked.

Egon nodded shortly. "Yes."

"Cool," Ray replied. "Let's hear it."

The key to his plan, it developed, was a funnel. Something like, Winston gathered, a larval catheter, down which the wrigglies would travel before ejecting themselves into the environment.

This final phase was going to take place at the waterfall in the Botanical Gardens. "I love it there!" Ray exclaimed, looking around, "That's where we trapped that beautiful frog princess!" Everyone nodded; Venkman coughed _just a big frog_ into his hand. 

"The primate display at the zoo was not available," Egon told him. That was Ray's number-one favorite place in the city, other than Gray's Papaya on 72nd.

"The cascade at the gardens is ideal. I'd like to keep it calm and welcoming," Egon continued, with a sharp glance at Peter. "Current research in human births support this psychologically gentle approach as beneficial for both mother—or host—and child. Or children."

 _You needed science to tell you that?_ Winston thought, but didn't bother to say. Yes, they _did_ need science. Everyone had their own crutch, their own crooked spectacles for looking at the world and making sense of it.

He was just glad that his crutch complemented Ray's spectacles, and vice versa.


End file.
